by Jon Land
Caitlin nodded her agreement. The previous night, Cort Wesley and she had checked into adjoining rooms in a roadside motel. He and his boys took one, while Caitlin and Maria took the other in accordance with his instructions. Dylan saw the look on his face and didn’t bother to protest. The plan was for him and Caitlin to take shifts sitting out on the covered portico that ran the length of all the rooms. But Cort Wesley couldn’t sleep and ended up staying outside through her hours as well as his, leaving Caitlin free to match the contents of the envelope Captain Tepper had given her earlier in the day to a foldout map of Texas and Mexico pulled from a dust-riddled display in the motel office.
Her head had just hit the pillow when a thunderstorm sprouted from the sky, first smacking the roof with the clatter of hailstones and then saturating the air with rain. It fell in buckets too deep for the gutters to handle and split the last of Caitlin’s night in rough halves divided between listening to the torrents pouring to the ground and the familiar nightmares of her as a little girl, this time being trapped alone under her favorite cottonwood tree with lightning flashing all around her. In the first of the dreams, she wasn’t scared because she knew her father would come get her. In the last of them, she was terrified because he hadn’t, waking up with a start drenched in her own sweat and feeling for the empty space in the bed next to her in the hope Cort Wesley would be there.
“Putting all that aside for a time, I put a rush on the forensics report on that knife,” Tepper resumed, after the waitress had set a heaping portion of bacon and eggs with a side of hash browns that spilled off the plate down before him. “If the blade matches the cut marks on the previous victims, this Macerio’s our man for sure.” He leaned forward, leaving his food untouched. “You ready to tell me what it is you been fixing to say about Las Mujeres de Juárez?”
Caitlin took that as her cue to lift the foldout map from her pocket and straighten it out on the tabletop, coming right up to the rim of Tepper’s plate. With each exposed fold, more of the thick red dots she’d drawn along the Texas-Mexico border appeared.
“What the hell am I looking at, Ranger?”
Caitlin used the butter knife from her place setting to further enunciate the jagged line made by the killings’ locations. “Roughly four hundred bodies found, going east to west.” She placed the tip of the knife atop the first dot she’d drawn. “Starting here, farthest to the west about even with Juárez, and ending here, farthest to the east, one after the other.”
Tepper looked as if he’d forgotten his food altogether. He leaned back in his chair, continuing to study the map as he picked at his eyebrows. “You saying what I think you’re saying?”
“Each body recovered farther east than the one before.”
“Man’s drawing a line in blood across the whole goddamn border.”
“And look at what’s next,” Caitlin said, using her knife again to draw an imaginary line from an unblemished spot on the map north.
“San Antonio,” Tepper realized, whistling under his breath.
“Maria Lopez, Captain.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
52
JUÁREZ, MEXICO; THE PRESENT
“Hey, Doc,” Macerio greeted the man who opened the door. “It’s good to see you again.”
Hector Nobrega’s mouth dropped. He gazed at the massive, muscle-laden figure before him through the house’s steel grate, as the rattle of his sons’ playing with their toy trucks sounded behind him. Nobrega thought about slamming the door now, wondered if the grate was strong enough to keep Macerio out. He doubted it.
Nobrega smelled a stench rising out of the man, a fetid odor of decay mixed uneasily with an astringent scent powerless to disguise it.
“I think they’re infected,” Macerio said suddenly.
“What?”
“The bullet wounds, two of them. Got both of the slugs still stuck inside. Couldn’t get to them myself. ¿Me puede ayudar usted, el médico?”
“Help you?” Nobrega parroted, buying time to think. “We’d need to do it at a hospital, in sterile conditions where I can—”
“No need for all that, Doctor. Not if you got a pair of pliers, some antiseptic, and antibiotics handy.”
Macerio sensed the doctor’s resistance, just as he had after demanding the chemotherapy. “Those your kids I hear inside?”
“Usted tiene suerte,” Nobrega said, dropping the second slug he’d pulled from Macerio’s flesh into the bathroom sink.
“Lucky? I suppose that’s true enough.”
Macerio couldn’t help wondering what the doctor might have found inside him. Certainly normal flesh and blood couldn’t account for the man he was, especially after the constant drip of steroids flowing into his system. Nor could they account for a pair of powerful shells getting waylaid by simple muscle en route to pulverizing bone and vital organs. Truth was Macerio had indeed poked around with one of his knives, intending to dig out the slugs had they not proven to be so deep and difficult to budge. The best he could do was bite his lip through the pouring of alcohol into the wounds to forestall the rapid infection Macerio had seen eat through men like acid. Even then, he was certain a rank odor of putrefaction had begun to leak from the wounds by the time he reached Nobrega’s home.
“You’re lucky,” Nobrega resumed, “because another day or so without treatment and the infection would’ve killed you.”
Macerio repositioned himself on the toilet seat to give the doctor a better angle with which to clean, stitch, and dress his wounds.
“I don’t have any more local anesthesia. This is going to hurt.”
Nobrega soaked a thick gauze pad with alcohol and went to work.
“My hair hasn’t started to grow back yet,” Macerio told him.
“It will.”
“Eyebrows too?”
“I’m sure.”
That seemed to perk Macerio up, even as Nobrega began stitching his wounds. “Hey, Doc, I ever tell you where I got this toupee?”
“No,” Nobrega said, not bothering to disguise his disinterest as he continued stitching, drawing not so much as a flinch from his patient.
“Nada mas.”
Something chirped and Nobrega watched Macerio pull a sleek black cell phone, like none he’d ever seen before, from his pocket.
“Keep stitching,” Macerio said, adjusting his massive shoulders to block Nobrega’s view of the screen.
But Nobrega could feel those shoulders tighten at Macerio’s reading of the message, stretching the thick skin through which he was trying to stitch. It was like trying to push a needle through steel.
Macerio pocketed the cell phone and twisted enough to meet Nobrega’s gaze. “I’ve got business across the border.”
Nobrega thought he saw something like fire dancing in the big man’s eyes, as close as Macerio could get to happiness.
“Hurry up, Doctor. Apresúrese.”
53
SAN ANTONIO; THE PRESENT
Cort Wesley strolled into the lobby of the Hyatt Regency Hotel with Maria, Dylan, and Luke in tow.
“I got some business upstairs,” he said, finding a reasonably secluded spot in the lobby to leave them. “I wanna see all three of you right here when I come back down.” He fished a ten-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to Dylan. “Get some snacks if you want.” Then, to his younger son Luke, “But don’t let me catch you with any chocolate on your breath, you hear?”
The boy nodded, puffing out some breath.
Cort Wesley was halfway to the elevator bank when a broad man in a black suit approached him. His nametag identified him as Eugene.
“Excuse me?”
“What can I do for you?” Cort Wesley asked with a smile.
“That boy you came in with, the one with the long dark hair.”
Cort Wesley tensed slightly. “What about him?”
“Well, this may sound crazy, but he looks an awful lot like that rock star kid on the cover of all them magazines my daughter r
eads.”
Cort Wesley leaned in closer to the man and lowered his voice. “It’s not crazy at all. Can you keep a secret?”
“Uh-huh.” Eugene nodded.
“Kid’s in town on the down low. The young lady’s his girlfriend. Younger boy’s his little brother. Are you reading me on this?”
“I believe I am.”
“You work security?”
“We call it Loss Prevention.”
“Sure thing.” Cort Wesley clamped his arm across the man’s broad shoulders in friendly fashion. “I’d be most appreciative if you could keep an eye on him while I’m upstairs getting the lay of the land,” he continued, sliding a fifty-dollar bill into Eugene’s lapel pocket. “Anything happens I should know about, I’ll give you my cell number.”
“I’m on it, sir,” Eugene continued, handing the bill back to him. “Be my pleasure. Wouldn’t mind the kid’s autograph, though. For my daughter.”
Frank Branca Jr. had reserved the Riverbend Suite overlooking the Riverwalk itself. The suite featured no balcony, so Frank Sr. sat in his wheelchair set by a spacious window instead, straw hat draped over his head to keep the sun from his eyes and a light blanket covering his legs.
“Glad you’re on board, Cort Wesley,” Branca said, drinking from a liter-sized bottle of water misty with condensation. Seated on the couch, he looked taut and fit, his skin smooth enough to appear as if someone had sprayed it on. He wore a silk shirt so perfectly rolled up at the elbows Cort Wesley figured it might have come that way.
“Didn’t say I was on board yet. Just said I wanted to talk.”
“Not much to talk about until you’re on board, is there? You want a water?”
Cort Wesley shook his head. “All right, what’s my role in this?”
“Your specialty: intimidation.”
“How’s that?”
Branca gulped down some more water, a few stray drops dappling his silk shirt. “What we’re selling here is information. That’s the product. Nice clean score.”
“This goes back to Hollis Tyree’s water fields again.”
“Did I say that?”
“You did yesterday. Said water wasn’t the only thing they found.”
“And the beauty is they don’t know about it and we do.”
“About what exactly?”
Branca stole a quick glance at his father and lifted a thin leather briefcase from the cushion next to his. “Contents of this are gonna make me more money than my dad ever made on any single deal. We collect the money and turn the case over. Simple as that.”
“It’s never as simple as that.”
Branca grinned. “That’s what I thought. Figured it’d take a kind of auction to get the right price. Then, low and behold, the first buyer I spoke with made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“So to speak.”
“Yeah,” Branca winked.
“Who’s the buyer?” Cort Wesley asked him.
“Meet’s set for noon tomorrow,” Branca answered, ignoring his question. “I want you here at ten.” He looked toward his three bodyguards, two of whom Cort Wesley recognized from the firing range the day before. “The boys here already been told you’ll be running that part of the show.”
The bodyguards all nodded to affirm Branca’s statement.
“And I’m supposed to, what, stand around and look menacing?” Branca grinned again, showcasing twin rows of overly white teeth. He toasted Cort Wesley with his water bottle. “Fucking Green Beret, what do you think?” Then he swallowed the rest down. “There’s big bucks in this for you, Cort Wesley. We’re not talking about moving junk or smack here, like the old days.”
“What are the chances more than just my presence will be required?”
“I figure the buyers will be bringing their own heavy artillery. That makes you my equalizer. Only man I know up to the job in the current circumstances. This goes down like the French Quarter the other day,” Frank Jr. continued, “I want you there. You want to bring in extra muscle, feel free.”
“Extra muscle tends to get in the way, Frankie.”
Branca flashed his grin again. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Cort Wesley’s cell phone rang.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more, sir,” Eugene, the hotel security guard, told him.
“What happened?” Cort Wesley asked, Luke shielded behind him now with neither Dylan nor Maria anywhere to be seen.
“Two cops came into the lobby like storm troopers, and tried to take the rock star kid’s girlfriend into custody.”
“You get their names?”
Eugene shook his head. “Caught one calling the other ‘Bib’ is all.”
Cort Wesley felt his spine stiffening. He thought he heard thunder rumble outside, then realized it was in his own head. “Bib . . . You’re sure?”
“I am, yes. He and the other cop started dragging the girl away, so the rock star kid throws himself at the one called Bib and cold-cocks him right in the face.”
“Cold-cocked a cop?”
“Busted his nose from what I could see, based on the blood. Then the other cop maces the rock star kid . . .”
“They maced him?” Cort Wesley said, fire burning in his belly.
“And slapped cuffs on him, while the girl takes off and the cop with the busted nose chases her through the lobby. Second set of uniforms caught her at the door.”
Cort Wesley’s vision tightened, the narrow world before him shrinking in size while tightening in focus. He felt each breath like a rumble in his chest.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Eugene was saying. “It all happened so fast, there wasn’t nothing I could do except call you. I’m sorry.”
Cort Wesley fought to steady his thinking. “So the cops took the kids away.”
“Threw each one in the back of separate cruisers. One who got his nose busted left with a handkerchief against his face. Sir, I feel just terrible that I let you down so.”
“Wasn’t your fault, Eugene.”
“I got one good thing to report anyway,” Eugene said, producing a high-end cell phone from his pocket.
“What’s that?”
“While all this was happening, a guest snapped a picture of the rock star kid. I figured the least I could do was confiscate it to keep this from getting any more worse than it already is.”
“You done good there.”
“Keep the kid’s face out of the snot rags anyway.”
“You got that right, my friend,” Cort Wesley said, cell phone back in one hand keyed up to Caitlin Strong’s number, while the other clung to Luke, keeping him in close.
“Don’t forget that autograph,” Eugene called after him. “Whenever you get the chance.”
54
ALBION, TEXAS; THE PRESENT
“Her name’s Molly Beaumont,” Sheriff Tate Huffard told Caitlin, as they pulled to a halt in front of a modular one-story home with an old Mercury Marquis parked under a carport.
“Why isn’t she in school?” she asked.
“Mother decided to home school her, at least until her teacher’s hand heals all the way.”
Huffard led the way up a walk flanked on either side by yellowing crab grass.
“Mother’s expecting us,” he said, ringing the doorbell. “She’s kind of at a loss these days.”
The door opened to reveal Blanche Beaumont dressed in cheap jeans that were too tight and wearing an extra layer of makeup. “This must be the Ranger,” she said dryly, eyeing Caitlin. “Thought it be a man.”
“Can we come in, Mrs. Beaumont?”
“Sure thing. Excuse the mess, if you don’t mind. My cleaning lady’s got the week off.”
The remark was meant to be funny, but it came out sounding sad. Blanche Beaumont stepped aside, so Caitlin and Sheriff Huffard could enter.
“I don’t get back to work at Walmart next week, I’m gonna lose my gig as assistant manager there. Means I’ll have to send Molly back to school whether she’s ready or not.�
�
“You afraid she’ll do something like this again, ma’am?” Caitlin asked her.
“Ranger, I never would’ve expected it the first time, so who’s to say?”
They found Molly Beaumont seated behind a tiny, prefab plastic desk set in the corner of the room, filling in the features of Dorothy and the Wicked Witch in a Wizard of Oz coloring book. The little girl turned when she heard her door open, staring emotionlessly at the two strangers standing behind her mother. Her hair looked stringy and unwashed, her stare as colorless as the black-and-white outlines on the page before her.
“Molly,” Blanche Beaumont started, “these folks wanna have a word with you. You tell the truth and be polite, okay?”
Molly nodded and watched her mother backpedal from the doorway, disappearing. “My mommy doesn’t want me going back to school,” she said softly.
“Do you know why?” Caitlin asked her, as Sheriff Huffard eased the door closed.
“Because of what I did to my teacher.”
“You remember why you did it?”
The little girl was working on the Wicked Witch’s face now. “Did what?”
“Hurt your teacher.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Molly said, keeping her focus on the coloring book.
“You mean it was an accident?”
Molly shrugged her tiny shoulders that were little more than flesh-tinted bone.
“You don’t remember doing it at all, do you?”
Molly shook her head. “I know I did it because my mommy told me I did.”
“What do you remember?”
“The rain and walking up to the teacher’s desk. Then she started screaming and I saw there was a scissors stuck in her hand. It looked funny.”
“Funny?”
“I laughed because it looked so funny.”
Caitlin crouched down so she was even with the little girl. “Was something bothering you that day?”
“My cat.”
“What about your cat?”
Molly began coloring more feverishly, her crayon drifting outside the black lines to destroy the neat order of that drawing and the one on the facing page. Caitlin touched her arm and felt it stiffen.